Between the last trip and this I started to wonder if I was falling out of love with caravanning. There, I said it. Over the last year storage charges had gone up again, as had the car insurance and Road Tax – sorry – Vehicle Excise Duty. Things were getting very expensive and my state of mind was not helped when I started half-heartedly looking for somewhere to drag Patsy for the half-term break at the end of May. Pitch prices were getting silly and I was beginning to question whether I’d done the right thing in forking out four figures for a new front panel last year.
As it was, Sandra invited me up to Chester for a few days and that sealed the deal – Patsy would stay in the storage yard at least until the summer break. I took the train to avoid driving and we had a great time.
Then the news came that fellow caravanner Phil had discovered that his caravan had been stolen from the storage yard – he’d called in to take the ‘van for a service and the yard operators hadn’t noticed! I felt the need to go and check on Patsy and took the first opportunity to call in on the way back from the evening school run. Just spending a few minutes in and around the ‘van banished all the negative thoughts from my head, it was time to start planning the summer!
Fast forward to the end of June when our school summer holiday began. I was buoyed by the prospect of eight weeks off, also, at last, the arrival of the new drivers contracts. Without boring you with the details we now have full (term) time contracts with an uplift in pay that properly rewards the work that we do. I signed it and sent it back immediately.
I’d booked to start my travels on the Monday, having finished work on the Friday but entertained the possibility of going on Sunday. This would have required two things: the site to have pitches and for me to be organised. There was the possibility of the former but little likelihood of the latter. So that was that, Monday it was!
Monday 1st July
Awake at silly’clock as usual even though the alarms had been gleefully turned off a couple of days ago. I couldn’t get on site until 1pm and with a two-and-a-half hour run, give or take, there was no rush. Over a cuppa I mentally checked and double checked that I’d remembered to pack everything I needed. Most of it was already in the ‘van thanks to a visit the day before so there wasn’t much to haul down to the car aside from my laptop and stuff out of the freezer.
I was over at the storage yard by 9:30am and the “Things I’d Forgotten” list had it’s first entry. My shirts and waistcoat were still hanging up in the hall. Hardly caravanning essentials but you know me. Anyway I couldn’t be arsed to go back for them, t-shirts would have to do.
Cambridge – my home town – was to be my first stop which meant negotiating the Dartford crossing, however traffic was unusually quiet and I didn’t actually come to a stop until I was in the tunnel itself. Once through though it was a straightforward run, Hetty sitting happily at 60mph for most of the way and the journey required little input from me other than the occasional stab at the A/C button. It was one of those days where it was a bit too warm without and a bit too cold with.
I eschewed taking the shorter route through town, not least because I’d avoid the gawd awful ‘surface’ of Queen Ediths Way and instead continued along the A11 and turning off and through Fulbourn. This had the added advantage of the opportunity of a pit stop to attend to the plumbing.
I arrived about 1:30pm and joined a queue of eight units, the single track access road meaning there was no chance of those already on site been able to leave – unless on foot. It wasn’t until I got to the barrier that I could see a couple cars trying to do just that, they didn’t look particularly patient!
I’d opted for a grass pitch and there was only one left, tucked behind another in a cosy nook. With that pitch and the one opposite vacant it was a fairly straight manoeuvre and I got Patsy thereabouts at the first attempt, after joking with a passing pedestrian that she’d better go first as I’d be here hours!
I’d foolishly detached the car before realising a ramp was needed on the offside. The motor mover struggled, it’s pretty old and really needs replacement. Just hoping it doesn’t present problems later on in the trip.
Set up was swift, a recliner was extracted from the car, the top of a beer popped and a pizza was thrown in the oven, after the consumption of which, a nap was enjoyed.
After a cuppa, a razor was run over the chops, water was splashed over the face and a fresh t-shirt and a pair of leather trews was donned for the evenings outing. I was going to the fair!
The fair is an integral part of Histon Feast Week, which included a street parade, a market, fete and so on. The fair would pull on to the village green midweek then open on the Friday night with the last night being the following Tuesday. As a kid I loved and went regularly with a number of a school mates – always on a Tuesday as that was the ‘cheap’ night; 25p a ride rather than 50p. It was only towards the end of my time going that we worked out it was cheap for a reason – you only got half the time!
Anyway the layout was always the same, it was a small village green so rides were squeezed on, the Speedway (or Arc as it’s known in fair terms) the Dodgems, a smaller circular ride and various stalls around the edges. I often used to win a goldfish which never lasted more than a week.
The highlight for me was always the Speedway – or Thurston’s Ben Hur as it was called then – we used to crowd around the edges, inches away from the rotating undulating platform, ready to pounce when the ride finished. Around 1984, the ride was converted to a Waltzer and I was initially apprehensive but grew to love it very much. At some point there appeared to by a change of ownership and the fantastic typically fairground livery changed too, Thurston’s Waltzer became T.S. Whyatt’s Disco Waltzer, then Whyatt’s Hellraiser. The ride remained the same though and a big attraction was the loud music with typically heavy bass, added to by the trundling of the ride. Back then the operator had a twin turntable disco deck, suspended on bungee straps in the pay box to counteract the vibrations of the ride. The needle would have been jumping all over the place otherwise! Photo nicked from Facebook:
I also remember the massive diesel generator, throbbing away behind on its own trailer and when not on the ride I’d sometimes watch it as the ride started up, the Ammeter burying its needle to the right, the generator slowing and belching out black smoke in protest.
Thurston was and is a big name in East Anglia with the family over various generations operating travelling funfairs over many years. Last year, prompted by some pictures of the fair I did some research and discovered there is a big photo archive of fairground rides, categorised by type. I learnt that the ride I loved some much was built in 1937, as a Speedway, for Mrs William Thurston. It remained under the Thurston name, it being converted to a Waltzer at the end of the 1983 season, with the name Whyatt appearing from 1984. A contributor on a Facebook page said that Theodore Whyatt had married a Thurston which explained the name change. I find travelling fairs fascinating and all this stuff really interests me though you are probably all asleep by now!
Right, back to the present, I elected to take the bus – well two – so I could partake of a sherbert or two and after getting the 1 into the city swapped to the 8 which would take me out to Histon. The route hadn’t changed since I was a kid when I used to get the bus into town on a Saturday morning. Once the 104, then the 184 and 84, it still plies the same route.
I was enjoying the journey despite a signs of rain on the windscreen, astonished at how much building work was going on. It never seems to stop in and around Cambridge and there are new housing estates going up everywhere.
Finally we arrived at Histon Green and there it was, the ride I had enjoyed so much all those years ago, completely different livery but still bearing the same name – and the cars were black! The layout of the rest of the fair had changed, the dodgems had gone which was a pity as I could have brushed up on my driving skills. Lots of smaller rides for the little kids – as opposed to big ones like me!
No matter though, it was the Waltzer I’d come for, I handed over a note and took my seat just a little bit apprehensive – I was considerably older and heavier and wondered how the body and mind would react to the spinning and undulation. I got a couple of photos as the ride started and even tried a video but as it gained speed I nearly lost my grip on the phone and thought best to tuck it away.
I won’t deny, as it sped up still more I initially wanted off and thought I’d made a mistake trying to rekindle my childhood, but gradually my body and mind adjusted to the motion, I relaxed, arms outstretched, closed my eyes and absorbed the whole experience. The ride wasn’t very busy with less then half the cars occupied which meant we all get plenty of attention from the platform rider, spinning the cars faster and faster. There was another brief surge in speed for a minute or so before the ride began to slow and come to a stop. I emerged, slightly giddy but with a very broad grin and feeling just a little emotional too.
With the rain now heavier I decided a pint was in order, to decompress and to look at the photos. Histon used to be well endowed with pubs – and still is to a degree. The Rose and Crown though was sadly closed, metal barriers surrounding the car park, something I’d missed when passing on the bus. The Boot was nearest and I settled down for a pint out of the rain.
It seemed silly to come all this way for just one ride and the next bus wasn’t due for a while so I headed back to the Waltzer and took my seat again. The platform rider grinned when he saw me return and with the ride even quieter I got even more erm, attention and loved it even more. This time I nearly went arse over tit when getting off, but no matter, I’d had a truly fabulous time, happy childhood memories rekindled, I was absolutely made up. As I said on my various social media posts at the time; grow old if you can but never grow up. I’ve known far too many people – Trev being one of course – who have been denied the former.
Back in town I needed to change buses at Jesus College again. The 1 wasn’t due for nearly an hour – we’re spoilt with a decent bus service down in Brighton – so I had a saunter along to King Street in search of ‘refreshment’. The ‘King Street Run’ was a thing back in the day, when students – and those old enough to know better – would traverse the street from one end to another, taking a pint in each of the numerous pubs. At one end was the Radegund, once a cosy little boozer often full of university dons and the like supping dark beer and puffing on pipes. Now it looked like a classroom. Studious looking young things hunched over laptops, it was almost unrecognisable.
I walked a bit further to find the King St Run. Again, back in the day this was the unofficial goth pub and on my few visits there was lots of black leather, PVC and fishnet, it’s wearers looking very sinister – and in my eyes fantastic – consuming considerable amounts of Snakebite Black, The interior looked the same but the clientele were certainly different – football shorts, beer bellies and poncy foreign lager dominated. There was some real ale on though. I eschewed the Doom Bar – or Doom Bore as some call it, going for a pint of Trooper, which wasn’t draught at all but served far too cold in a bottle. Oh well.
Once back in the caravan I reflected on the evening out, a simple but fabulous night and the memory of which I will treasure as much as the ones made all those years ago. It had been well worth it.